


For the Wicked

by cancerthecrabbo



Series: stitch me up and send me off [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief suicidal ideation, Gen, Grief, Hurt No Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Q-centric, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancerthecrabbo/pseuds/cancerthecrabbo
Summary: Quentin has a bad day.





	For the Wicked

“Oh, shit- goddammit—“

 

Quentin cursed and rubbed the hip that had clipped the edge of the couch.  He’d been concentrating too hard on reading a book on the possibility of creating a new dimension.  At least, he had been trying to read as much as possible before Eliot and Margo got back from the liquor store, or Alice came back from the library.  Penny and Kady had just gone to class, so he didn’t have to worry about them for a while.

 

It didn’t matter who would be home, and at what time.  Not anymore, not when he could strain his eyes-… _eye_ to the point of a headache from reading.  In fact, he could feel pressure building on the bridge of his nose as he stood in the living room.  Quentin was too preoccupied trying to rub away the pain to hear the door open.

 

“Quentin Coldwater, what do you think you’re doing?”  Gasped Eliot.

 

Quentin turned sharply to face Margo and Eliot.  “Nothing!  I was just going to…take a nap.”

 

“With a book,” Margo drawled. 

 

“Uh, yeah.  So.  I’m gonna go now, and take a nap.”

 

“Leave the book, Q.”

 

Despite how light-hearted they tried to make the situation, the tension was still thick.  No matter how earnestly they were trying to help, Quentin’s eye was a sore subject and it would continue to be until he came to terms with his loss.

 

 Quentin left his book on the table and trudged up the stairs to his room.

 

* * *

 

 He tried, honestly he did.  Quentin couldn’t help but think of the Beast every time he closed his eyes.  After all, his mind’s eye was in perfect condition.

 

The irony of the situation was overwhelming.

 

He lay down on his bed and let the sunlight warm him from his nose to his toes.  His hair was fanned out on the pillow behind him, away from his neck, and the sheets were molded to his body just right.  They cushioned Quentin, carrying him to slumber.

 

_“Useless little thing,” the Beast crooned.  “I bet your parents hated you.”_

_The finger inched closer and closer.  Quentin could see supernovas exploding right in front of him, stars being born and bursting into flames.  The whole universe was spread out before him, and then it was shoved into his right eye.  A symphony of comets colliding rode on his screams and filled the room to the brim._

_“You don’t deserve magic.”_

 

Quentin woke up with a scream dying in his throat.  He thanked his past self for putting up silencing wards that kept his yelling from reaching the others every time he had a nightmare.  It would be tedious to have Eliot, Alice, and Margo barge into his room as he gasped like a fish out of water.

 

He stared up at the ceiling.  Quentin spent what could’ve been an hour or…some other unit of time unblinkingly looking up at the speckled off-white that filled him with rage.  Well, he thought it was rage – or crushing grief.  He’d take either one because he had no choice so really it was just the universe shoving a bucket of flaming shit at him that he has to carry around.  He tried to get a grasp on his thoughts but they flew around in a flurry, shooting through his neurons too quickly to think, _Hey that sounds self-destructive and concerning enough to seek out a therapist,_ or even _Please stop thinking that I feel like throwing up_ because at the same time he was thinking about what he was going to do half an hour from now.  And tomorrow, and the day after that.  And how he would deal with it.  And how everyone hated him because he was so weak but also how much he hoped that they would be sad if he died somehow.  And then Quentin thought about how much it would hurt to kill himself but seconds later his brain was onto the next topic and the next and the next and the next—

 

“Stop stop stop thinking stop thinking stop thinking—“

 

 _Stop stop stop please make it stop please I feel so empty_ —

 

The bathroom lights hurt him, so he slammed his hand into the wall next to the wall and screamed in his throat.  The tiles hurt his knees and the toilet opened but his stomach was completely calm.  His mind was a storm of thoughts he couldn’t organize.  A hole opened up in his stomach but it wasn’t real _nothing_ was real except for the horrible fight or flight feeling in his abdomen that was filling with his anxiety.

 

The toilet clanked closed and he stood in front of the mirror with shaking hands at his sides.  The image in the mirror showed him ratty brown hair with…a streak of grey hair.  The lighter hairs stood out like blood against white fabric.

 

It must have come from the sheer stress of getting his eye gouged out.

 

_I hate moths._

 

_I hate moths._

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a vent story. At least the last part of it was. Sorry it's so short, maybe send in something you want to see in this series?


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